


My Dear R

by VoidEntity999



Category: Dishonored (Video Games), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (but I probably will), (but its ok if you havent read the brick or played dishonored because I explain everything), Assassination, Dishonored!AU, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, Trans Enjolras, canon!era, follows the brick more than the musical, more tags and ships to be added, omnipotent whale entities, we'll see if I make it slutty or not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-10-21 01:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20685413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidEntity999/pseuds/VoidEntity999
Summary: I've had a lovely time watching them, the friends of l'ABC. Their hopes, their dreams, their foolish dreams. But unfortunately, their fighting is coming to an end, and nothing awaits France but sixteen years of boring monarchy. Well, that just won't do. It seems time for me to pick another unlikely hero, and bestow upon him...a gift, of sorts.(After sleeping through the vast majority of fighting at the barricade, Grantaire wakes to gather what few revolutionaries have survived, among other allies, to prepare a plot to assassinate the king)





	1. Chapter 1

I've had a lovely time watching them, the friends of l'ABC. Their hopes, their dreams, their foolish dreams. But unfortunately, their fighting is coming to an end, and nothing awaits France but sixteen years of boring monarchy. Well, that just won't do. It seems time for me to pick another unlikely hero, and bestow upon him...a gift, of sorts.

***

_"Go rid yourself of your wine fumes somewhere else. This is the place for enthusiasm, not drunkenness. Don't dishonour the barricade!"_

_"Let me sleep here." _

_"Go and sleep somewhere else." _

_"Let me sleep here--until I die." _

_"Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living and of dying." _

_"You will see..." _

***

Grantaire awoke in his room, a dim gray light seeping in through the window. He yawned and stretched, putting on his shoes as he had fallen asleep in his clothes. He headed out the door and down the stairs, humming a tune as he went.

"Do you remember our sweet life, when we were both so young, and when we had no other desire in our hearts than to be well dressed and in love?"

He did not remember singing the song before, but the melody haunted him, as though it came to him in a dream. The last stair was missing, a gaping hole opening up in the floor before the final landing. Grantaire just shrugged, hopped over it, and continued along his way.

Outside, as he walked along the street, he noticed half of it was missing, the cobblestones seemingly trailing off into a deep gray abyss along one side. This didn't bother him somehow, never mind the islands of urban detritus, the massive whale-like creature looming in the distance--no, none of this bothered Grantaire, who was hurrying his pace towards the Musain because clearly he needed a drink. And there it was, the cafe he had frequented so many times. He could see it through an open front window, an empty table with a single bottle, waiting for him. There was just one problem: between him and the front of the cafe stretched another gaping whole several meters across, which, even with his noteworthy gymnastic abilities, he could not possibly clear. The entire situation was odd, the street just stopped here and began out there. He sighed in disappointment until he noticed the letters on the storefront, which typically read _Le Cafe Musain_, which had just read _Le Cafe Musain_, now gave a message. _Behind you_.

He turned around immediately to find another table, littered with empty bottles and candle wax. Memories flashed in his mind of sitting there with Joly and Bossuet at the Corinthe the morning of Lemarque's funeral. He spied the note that Gavroche's friend had brought them. Picking up the scrap of paper, he read the familiar words. "A B C. Lamarque." He flipped it over to find something drawn on the back, a symbol of sorts with curved and dashed lines.

"Ah!" No sooner had he seen it that the paper caught fire, and he called out in pain. In a few seconds, it was over, and he found himself still holding the note, unscathed, the markings from the back now burned onto the back of his hand. The back of the page was blank, and when he turned the paper over, the word "Lamarque" had vanished.

Staring across the chasm, he spied the bottle again. He let out a sigh of frustration, closing his eyes in pain as the burning sensation returned to his hand.

A sharp whisper in an unknown language filled his ears, and, startled, he opened his eyes to find himself in the Musain, standing before the bottle. Surprised, he held out his hands before him, wondering if he were hallucinating, and saw the mark on the back of his hand flash brightly before returning to its original color, dark as midnight.

He was studying his hands so intently that as he stepped forward, he didn't notice another hole in the floor, leaving him sprawling on all fours as he hit the pavement a few feet below. Making his way to his feet, he stepped forward, nearly stumbling as he walked down the street, slanted at a slight angle as it was suspended in the abyss. He spotted another bottle, resting on top of a sideways streetlamp. A challenge.

Grantaire closed his eyes, and found himself there in an instant, balancing carefully on the metal railing. He recognized the section of street as part of the rue de la Chanvrerie. He walked down its side, the fronts of several buildings making his sidewalk. Approaching the end of the street, he expected to see the Corinthe, but instead found a mass of furniture piled together blocking its view. On the top of the barricade was perched another table, this time with two bottles. He blinked up to it, and upon seeing the facade of the wine shop, his mouth fell open. Tattooed with holes from cannon fire, red stains covering the street. He didn't remember that.

Grantaire stumbled down the side of the barricade, nearly tripping several times on its makeshift architecture. Passing by a section of wall inscribed with "Long live the peoples!", he made his way into the shop, only to find it completely dark, a strange shrine built at its end. Candles with strange purple flames threw long shadows along the walls as he approached it, a lone bottle sitting on the table at the end.

"Having fun, R?"

Grantaire jumped, turning around to see a tall, slim figure step down from the stairs. There were no stairs. He had stepped down from nothing, from floating in midair.

"My dear," said the man. He was dressed in a neat black overcoat, but his black hair was disheveled, and when he spoke, the voice seemed to come from behind Grantaire, echoing eerily. But most of all, what unsettled Grantaire was his eyes, which were completely black, as if Grantaire were staring into nothing when he gazed into them. The man tilted his head, a slight smile snaking across his face. "You haven't even noticed that the bottles are empty."

Grantaire winced, trying not to focus on how he was shaking slightly. "W-who are you?"

"What does it matter," said the Outsider, his voice a trailing ennui. He sat down at the table. "I gave you my mark, is that not enough?"

There was another chair, but Grantaire did not join him. "What do you want from me?" he asked.

"Why, R," the Outsider replied, that smile returning to his face. "I'm so glad you asked. I want to make a deal."

"What...deal--" Grantaire jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see the Outsider had appeared behind him.

"Come with me," said the supernatural being, taking his arm.

"Erm--"

No sooner could Grantaire protest that they were transported to a lonely island populated by a massive and ornate dining table. "Look here," the Outsider said, gesturing to the inlaid wood surface depicting an intricate map. Grantaire leaned down to pick up one of the figurines, its features so delicate he swore it might breathe.

Grantaire winced under the Outsider's expectant gaze. "It's Paris?"

"How very observant, R."

Grantaire jumped as the Outsider appeared on the other side of him, tossing the figurine from his hands.

"Careful," said the man, easily catching it in his thumb and forefinger and replacing it to its exact position. "We wouldn't want anything to happen to our dear friend Jean Valjean."

"Who?" asked Grantaire, but the Outsider had already disappeared again.

This time he was floating above a spot on the table, lying on his stomach like a child playing with tin soldiers on the floor. "It's quite endearing, your little friends and their attempts to uproot the monarchy."

Grantaire spied the scene of Les Amis having a meeting at the Musain, Enjolras giving a speech, the others watching, including one familiar piece in the corner of the room. The Outsider plucked it from the scene, drifting over to the Palace of the Tuileries. "Don't get me wrong, I love a good direct action. I just think we could do with something even more..._direct_." With a flourish, he used Grantaire's piece to knock over the crowned figure.

Grantaire stared back at him, feeling remarkably sober. "You want me to kill Louis-Philippe?" he said flatly.

"Why, R," the Outsider beamed, and this time Grantaire felt less surprised to see him appearing at his side, "I hadn't even considered that. I would have suggested we knock over his chair. But since you brought it up, that does sound like a better idea."

Grantaire frowned, his face creasing with doubt. "How would I even do that? What about the National Guard?" He pointed to the model of the Tuileries. "The whole Swiss Guard is there."

"Silly R," the Outsider said, shaking his head. "Have you been drinking again? You don't even remember what's happened over the past fifteen minutes."

Grantaire frowned, glancing away at the floor, which broke off as soon as one stepped not two feet away from the table. He lifted his left hand, observing the mark still etched in his skin. "You gave me--"

"A gift, yes," the Outsider interrupted him, sweeping by Grantaire as he paced along the side of the table. "Not that I don't doubt your physical abilities. You're quite the boxer, I hear."

Grantaire just stared at the display, his eyes lingering on the fallen figure. "No offense, sir," he said finally, turning to address the Outsider, "but why should I do anything you say? Seems like a lot of trouble to go through just because you gave me powers I didn't ask for."

As the man faced away from him, the Outsider's head hung with an amused smile. "Oh, R. I knew you would object. Don't you care about the revolution? Wait--" he said, watching Grantaire's silent expression, "You don't care, do you. You only care about one thing. Well, I can give it to you. It is, like I said, a deal. Kill the king in exchange for what you desire most."

Grantaire folded his arms. "And what's that?"

"My dear R," said the Outsider, his composure becoming more solid as his feet touched the floor beneath him. A soft beam of light passed over him, and R could see his black hair had an iridescence to it, flashing gold curls in the light. His skin was like smooth marble, and he towered over Grantaire in a righteous posture.

"Enjolras," he whispered. The man before him looked just that, the resemblance perhaps too perfect on the other-worldly being, but at the same time, he had shadows beneath his eyes, against his pale features. This was a darker, more sinister version.

Grantaire stepped forward, solemnly holding out his hand. "I'll do it."

***

When Grantaire awoke, the world was oddly quiet. He would have wondered if he were in the Void again, had he not had to peel his face off the sticky, drool-stained table that made his pillow, the only one too pitifully small to not have played its part in the barricade. His clothes were well worn in.

He stood up, limbs responding as though he had been asleep for a thousand years. Bodies were strewn around him, and he barely had the sense to put together from the holes in the walls and floor that the broken version of the Corinthe he saw in his dream was now a reality.

And there was Enjolras, standing triumphantly in the face of defeat, a line of National Guard raising their rifles towards him. None of them noticed Grantaire, but he could swear that Enjolras' gaze met his. In the leader's eyes flashed the smallest hint of fear.

"Take aim!"

Grantaire lifted a hand in dismay, as if to say "Wait! I'm with him!" when something caught his eye. The mark, the one from his dream, still stained the back of his hand. His mouth fell, and in his next breath, it flashed silver, and he heard another stream of whispered voices flood in and out of his ears. He looked up, but the guardsman did not fire.

Time stood still.

That look of terror was still frozen on his face, Enjolras, the fearless leader. Grantaire knew what he had to do.

Making his way past the guards, he lunged for Enjolras' waist, and took him over his shoulder. The body fell limp, and he climbed the window ledge, blinking out of the window to the faraway rooftop.

He felt the breath of the other person as he collapsed on the side of a chimney. Enjolras coughed as he came to his senses, looking up to Grantaire with a bewildered expression.

"Grantaire? Where have you--"

"Shh," Grantaire hissed. He peeked over the edge of the rooftop, watching as the National Guard lingered on the first floor of the Corinthe, one of them leaning out the window in search of the missing revolutionary. Grantaire quickly tucked his head back down. "They're looking for you."

"What--what happened?" breathed Enjolras, his eyes closed in a pained expression as he clutched at his head with one hand.

"We should get out of here," whispered Grantaire. He looked the other man up and down, and frowned. "Your coat."

Enjolras swallowed, barely able to open his eyes. "My...what?"

"Your coat," said Grantaire, shifting towards him. "You need to take off your coat. They'll be looking for someone of your description."

The other man just sat still, hugging his knees as he sat on the rooftop.

"Enjolras?"

Finally, he nodded, and began to rid himself of the red outergarment, Grantaire tugging at the sleeves.

"Now what?" said Enjolras, still unable to meet his gaze, the coat wadded up in his hands.

Grantaire thought quickly. "I'll take it."

Enjolras didn't protest as Grantaire took the garment from his hands. He scanned the nearby buildings and spied an open window. He blinked inside, tossing the coat in a burning fireplace and disappearing before the mistress in the other room could notice.

"Okay," he said, returning to Enjolras, who had not moved since their previous encounter. Night was beginning to fall. "My lodgings aren't too far from here. Shall we go?"

Enjolras nodded vacantly.

***

"Welcome to my humble abode," said Grantaire, placing Enjolras quite near his bed, only taking another moment to fall in it. He had told Enjolras to wait outside, as the two of them entering would have been suspicious. Once Grantaire had entered, he opened the window as a way to sneak the other man inside.

The room was quite spartan, just a furnished bedroom that Grantaire rented while he was a student. A few books rested against the wall, an open trunk with a mess of clothes. A chair stood before a desk littered in sketches and writings. Notes on the Apollo Belvedere. Several empty wine bottles, the works.

Enjolras sat back against the wall. "Nice place," he breathed listlessly.

Grantaire breathed a humourless laugh. "Nice to see you still have your wits about you."

***

"You need to eat," said Grantaire. The light of midday peeked in through the dreary clouds outside the window, and Grantaire had cleared the space where he slept on the floor last night. Enjolras lie in fetal position as he had for some time, facing the wall. Grantaire pushed a tray of provisions towards him.

"No." His voice was muffled.

"I'll force it down your throat if I have to."

He meant it entirely as a joke, of course, but that got Enjolras to sit up and at least survey the food. He took the plate, picking a single grape, passing cold glances at Grantaire while he ate.

Grantaire pulled up a chair beside him, fidgeting with his hands. "Sorry about the mess. I don't know how long it will be until it's safe for you to leave, but you can stay until then."

Enjolras said nothing, didn't look up at him. His appetite had returned, seeing as he scarfed down a good portion of bread, so that was good.

Grantaire swallowed uncomfortably. "I know it's probably difficult for you to speak of, but would you mind telling me...what exactly happened at the barricade?"

A clatter sounded as Enjolras set down the plate abruptly, looking up at him with a dead expression.

"Sorry, I don't want to upset you," Grantaire rescinded, but Enjolras just swallowed his mouthful.

"I watched all of my friends die in front of me. All of our friends. And what did you do? You were drunk, you missed the whole thing."

He resumed eating.

"Right," said Grantaire, sheepishly combing at the back of his own neck. "I kind of figured."

An awkward silence lingered between them. The sound of townsfolk passing by on the street bothered Grantaire for some reason, and he was moved to close the window.

"Grantaire," said a pointed voice, and he was faced with his muse.

Even wildly domesticated by his surroundings, his clothes stained from gunpowder and other men's blood, his hair a wild mess of curls, the wrinkles of Grantaire's bedsheets blooming around him, the bags under his eyes, he was still a vision of light. Grantaire found himself leaning in. "Yeah?"

"Why did you save me?"

Grantaire winced, his brow furrowing. What kind of question was that? "What do you mean?"

Enjolras set down the plate, casting his steely gaze to leave Grantaire in tremors. "You could have let me die in dignity, the face of the revolution. What do I have left? To live in exile from my home country or worse, face a prison sentence and execution if I am found?"

"You won't be found," Grantaire assured him, although he wasn't entirely sure himself.

Enjolras gaze fluttered towards the floorboards. "Still. Why me? You seem to be ordained with some higher power, and yet you chose to save me?"

"I only had the chance to save you," Grantaire reasoned, but he felt an anxious river run through him. Enjolras was dangerously close to the truth.

"Really," he said doubtfully. "You would have saved the others, too?"

"Of course, Apollo," R countered, leaning one hand onto the bed post. "They're my friends, too."

"But only because they're your friends. You wouldn't have done anything for the revolution."

"I would have died beside you!"

Their eyes met, somehow only a few inches apart. Enjolras cast his gaze away, a bitter scorn painted upon it. "You care nothing for the revolution."

Grantaire made a grimace, jumping to his feet. "I care a lot! I'll carry this revolution single-handedly!"

"Good luck with that," Enjolras scoffed under his breath, turning once again towards the wall. "The revolution is dead. You couldn't save anyone else if you tried."

Grantaire shook his head, looking around for his shoes.

"Where are you going?" Enjolras said flatly as Grantaire began to gather his outergarments.

"You can see yourself out," Grantaire hissed, and with that, slammed the door behind him. As he walked down the hallway, down the stairs, he didn't want to think of what had happened. He didn't want to address the overwhelming flood of emotions he felt whenever Enjolras was near. He didn't want to think of the tragic fate of all their friends. He needed fresh air.

***

Grantaire walked for hours, until the sky was dark. His pace slowed, but his legs kept pushing, even though they ached. Flames of streetlights littered spots in the Seine as he dragged his feet along the Rue de l'Homme Arme, until he stopped to rest on a railing overlooking the river. It was the early hours of the morning, hardly anyone walked the streets. Breathing deeply, he watched as a uniformed man pass him, hardly noticing Grantaire as he set his hat aside and continue along the bridge.

Grantaire winced, studying the bicorn with a determined expression. He paced up to it, taking it under his arm, and ran after the man.

"Monsieur! You forgot your--"

He froze as the man climbed the railing, staring into the deep waters like fate had only one place left for him. Grantaire knew this part of the Seine, they were standing at the point where the water runs swiftly between the arches, pushing anything that falls into it into the black depths below.

He watched as the body fell forth.

"No!" he shouted, and, without further thought, lifted his left hand. He blinked onto a protruding rock below, not even realizing what he was doing before he jumped to retrieve the man, and blinked to the safety of the nearby riverbank.

The man looked to be past middle aged, and coughed as he lied there, finally sitting up to face Grantaire. He looked down at his hands as though he were hallucinating.

"I'm dry. I'm completely dry."

The man was shivering, though, so Grantaire thought to lend him his coat, spreading it over his shoulders. A light rain began to fall. "Come on, Monsieur. We should go inside."

***

The man had barely said a word, clutching at the seams of Grantaire's overcoat as they reached the outside of Grantaire's lodgings. It was all he could think of on short notice, as the rain began to fall harder.

The older man coughed as Grantaire unlocked the door. "You shouldn't have saved me. I was meant to die," he told him.

Grantaire breathed a sigh. "Yes, well, join the club," he said, leading the man to sit in his desk chair. On his bed lay a mass of blankets he presumed must be Enjolras, who apparently hadn't left.

Grantaire found another blanket crumpled on the floor along with some clothes, thinking to give it to the man in exchange for his overcoat. The man obliged, clutching it over his lap as he sat quietly in the chair, his empty gaze trained at a spot on the floor.

A few minutes later, Grantaire returned with a cup of tea, which the man took with a gracious nod, although his eyes remained distracted by otherworldly thoughts.

"Do you have a name, Monsieur?" he asked, unsure if his helpfulness had overstayed its welcome.

The man just shook his head. "I'm nothing. I'm no one. I owe my life to a convict. A convict, and well, you too."

"Good," said Grantaire, thinking to laugh as he had no other way to respond. "I was worried you had me mistaken for a convict."

"No," breathed the man. He seemed quite sure of himself. "This man I have pursued for some many years. I could not have mistaken him for anyone else."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, but the older man just sipped on his tea. A soft rain fell against the window outside. Candlelight flickered from the nearby table, casting shadows in the creases on the man's face.

"I pursued him for many years," he continued, "but when he finally had me in his grasp, he let me go free."

Grantaire frowned, resting his elbows on the corner of the desk. "That's quite the story. What did you say his name was?"

"Jean Valjean."

"Jean Valjean..." Grantaire's voice trailed off. Something about the name was familiar, but he couldn't place it. Before he could ask, something stirred in the bed next to them.

"Grantaire, who's there? I could have sworn I dreamed that--"

Enjolras' face froze as his eyes met with the man's, exchanging a mutual surprise.

"What?" Grantaire said, glancing between them. "Do you two know each other?"

Enjolras' expression turned grim. "Javert."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I would update "regularly" and "often"? Apparently I wasn't lying, only a few sleepless nights since and I have this update. Enjoy!!

On that fateful day when Enjolras turned over Javert, the spy, into the hands of Jean Valjean for execution, the inspector's last words to the revolutionary were, cried out in scorn, "We shall meet again shortly!"

This was not what he meant.

"You're supposed to be dead, spy," Enjolras said bitingly, leaning over the edge of the bed.

"I could say the same about you." Javert's expression was one of a stoic's, but less from a certain philosophy and more from having seen enough.

"Grantaire," Enjolras said pointedly, and it was difficult for Grantaire to concentrate when his upper body was clothed only in a loose chemise (nor did it help that he was sitting in Grantaire's bed). "Why have you brought him here?"

"I don't know," Grantaire said in a small voice. He cleared his throat. "I-it was raining, and he needed someplace to go. I felt bad for him; he just tried to jump off a bridge!"

"Really," Enjolras said, leaning against the wall by the bed an folding his arms doubtfully. He looked to Javert. "You tried to take your own life?"

"It's true," said Javert, his expression cold. "Although I wouldn't say I was any more suicidal than you and your little revolutionary friends."

"You're quite the gentleman, speaking ill of the dead--"

"Excuse me," Grantaire interrupted, "what happened, exactly?"

Enjolras's fiery gaze remained on Javert, who simply sipped his tea. "Would you like to explain to him?"

Javert cast him a sideways glance. "I'll let you do the honours."

Enjolras sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the wall. "As for this man, shortly after we built the barricade, Gavroche identified him as a police spy. We had him tied up in the tap room until Monsieur Valjean, another civilian who proved himself an ally to the cause, asked to execute him. It's clear now that was a mistake."

"You couldn't kill me, and neither could he," said Javert. He lacked the anger that Enjolras held, that he once held. He sounded tired more than anything. "I couldn't even take my own life; it seems this gentleman plucked me right out of the air."

"You saved him?" Enjolras looked to Grantaire partially in amazement, partially in outrage.

Grantaire had never felt more conscientious. He cast an apologetic smile and shrugged.

"And how have you survived?" Javert asked without looking up, although the question was clearly directed at Enjolras. "I trust you came to your senses?"

The blood drained from Enjolras' face. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"I saved him as well," Grantaire explained. "Much in the same way I saved you, Monsieur. He was in the line of fire, and I stole him away at the last moment."

That caused Javert to stir with a surveying gaze towards Enjolras. "Well," he said in conclusion, "Fate is surely laughing at us both."

Grantaire thought about how the Outsider must be watching them, thoroughly amused by the situation.

"Grantaire..." Enjolras began, his suspicions beginning reaching their limit. "How_ did_ you save me? Both of us?"

Grantaire looked down, fidgeting with his hands as he sat there, two pairs of eyes waiting in anticipation. Three, actually. "You'll think me insane," he said. "You won't believe me. You'll say I've been drinking again."

Enjolras folded his arms. "There has to be some explanation for what happened."

Grantaire glanced to Javert, whose face was unreadable. He sighed. "Okay. I'll tell you. When I was asleep during the barricade, I dreamt I met this man, a sort of...prince." Grantaire wondered how to describe him, perhaps leaving out his likeness to the man sitting in front of him. "He had dark eyes. Anyway, he gave me powers to bend space and time, but in exchange for...something."

He paused, his breath falling short. Enjolras did not look impressed. "And what is that?"

Grantaire swallowed uncomfortably, his eyes trained on the floor. "He wants me to kill Louis-Phillippe."

Enjolras' face contorted in protest. "What? And this was while you were sleeping off the wine at the barricade--"

"Yes, I had been drinking, but this was all real, I swear!" Grantaire defended, before wondering if it had indeed been real. No, it had to be; he still had the mark. He held up his left hand. "Look! He gave me this."

"Let me see," Enjolras said pointedly. Grantaire hesitated, but nonetheless stumbled forth, holding out his hand. The man took it, examining it briefly before abruptly letting go. "This is a joke," Enjolras concluded. "You must have drawn that yourself in your delirium."

"No, the Outsider gave it to me!" Grantaire continued. "If not, then how am I able to teleport at will?"

"Right. Go on, then," Enjolras said, waving a hand.

Grantaire took a resolute stance and focused on the other side of the room. In an instant he was there, and he nearly collapsed from his own astonishment. He had thought that in the moment of necessity, it would no longer work.

In terms of emotion, Enjolras was similarly moved. Javert remained still in his chair, watching silently.

"What just happened?!" Enjolras said, now sitting alert.

"Yes, it's all real," said Grantaire, somewhat sheepishly. He adjusted his posture, remembering his task. "And I have a favour to ask."

"A favour," Enjolras breathed incredulously. "What could you possibly want?"

Grantaire took a deep breath. "It's not going to be an easy thing, to kill a monarch. And since both of you sort of owe me for saving your lives, you could...help me out?"

Enjolras was hardly swayed. "Have you lost your mind?! That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard--"

"I'll do it."

Both Grantaire and Enjolras were taken aback by the words spoken by Javert. The man had a fixed expression, but his eyes looked up to Grantaire with intent.

"You can't be serious," said Enjolras with dismay. "You, of all people, want to commit the highest form of treason?"

"The law has failed me," said Javert. He stood up and held out his hand. "I will help you, Monsieur."

Grantaire's eyes met his, and they slowly shook hands. Enjolras looked on in disbelief and disapproval.

"We should discuss this further," said the inspector, "but I have been awake for some time, and I must rest. I will return to you tomorrow."

"Good--that's good," said Grantaire, his spirits lifted. "But not here. My neighbors will be suspicious if I continue to have guests. There is a cafe called Musain, just around the block from here. Meet me in the back room."

"Very well," said Javert, and he gathered himself.

"Has the rain quite stopped for you to make it home well enough, Monsieur?" Grantaire asked, opening the door for him.

"I think it has. Thank you," said the older man. "Until tomorrow."

And with that, he left.

"What a peculiar fellow," remarked Grantaire.

Enjolras just lied back down, facing the wall. "He's gone to turn you in. You and me both."

***

The weather was more favorable the next morning when Grantaire made his way to the Musain. Louison, the dish-washer, greeted him as he entered.

"Monsieur Grantaire," she said, pulling him aside and speaking to him in a hushed tone. "There is a man in the back room waiting to see you. I think he is with the police. If you would like, I can tell him you are not here and ask him to leave."

Grantaire was astonished by her thoughtfulness. Much of his interactions with her had been drunkenly accosting her when she carried dishes back to the kitchen. He hadn't imagined she would value his patronage.

"I'm sorry to hear about your friends," she added.

Grantaire nodded in understanding. "The man in the back room is someone I'm expecting. Thank you, Louison."

She acknowledged him, and he journeyed to the back room, where Javert was waiting alone at one table. As Grantaire sat down, he noticed just how empty the room felt.

"The young woman I spoke to earlier was surprised when I said your name," said Javert. "I think she was surprised to hear that you were still alive."

"We all used to meet here, les amis," Grantaire explained, his voice breaking as he was taken by grief. "Not just to talk about revolution, but in general."

"So you were one of them?" asked Javert. "The amis de l'ABC?"

Grantaire supposed it wasn't clear before. "Yes. In all curiousity, how else did you think I knew Enjolras?"

Javert's posture straightened. "Forgive me, Monsieur. I have been to the prisons many times in my line of work. I was born in one, in fact. I know there are men who find company with other men, and I am sorry for assuming anything of the sort."

Grantaire was thoroughly unnerved. Is that what it looked like? When he brought Javert to his room, and Enjolras was already there? From watching the way they interacted? "You think--you think Enjolras and I..."

"Again, sir, I apologize."

Grantaire's shock was suddenly changed to resolve. "Yes, well now you know the truth, that I was one of them. I suppose that along with our conversation from last night, now you have enough information to make your arrest. Go on, you can alert whatever cohorts you have waiting for us outside." He leaned back, folding his arms defiantly.

Javert's composure was the same, his stare dead. "I'm not here to arrest you."

Grantaire winced. "Y-you're not?"

"No, and I'm wondering why, if you say you're a revolutionary, that I did not see you at the barricade."

"I was there!" Grantaire defended. Under Javert's gaze, his face fell as he admitted, "Well, physically, at least. The morning of LeMarque's funeral, I was drinking at the Corinthe with some of my friends. When the fighting broke out, it was Bossuet who suggested to Courfeyrac that they build it there. The barricade, I mean."

He lifted an eyebrow as he explained to the older man, but Javert said nothing.

"Anyway," he continued. "By then I had drunk, well, a lot. I was passed out up until right as the National Guard closed in around Enjolras." His voice faded slightly. "I missed the rest of my friends'--their passing."

"They were mostly alive by the time I was freed," said Javert. "I later encountered Jean Valjean who escaped the last of the fighting through the sewers; he was carrying the body of a young man on the brink of death."

Grantaire's brow furrowed. "You mentioned him before, the convict."

"Yes." This time, Javert's gaze faltered as though he were lost in thought. "We have a long history, Jean Valjean and I. Much longer than you would care to hear about, I'm sure."

Grantaire looked to him with a respectful sincerety. "We have nothing but time."

Javert was slow to answer, but finally gave a nod. "Very well, then."

Over the course of the next few hours, Javert told him everything that happened, starting from his patrol at the prison in Toulon, to finding him under a different name serving as mayor in a small town, to the long series of pursuits and narrow escapes, to their chance encounter on the barricade. By this time, they had ordered and finished lunch.

Grantaire cleared his throat with a sip of water. "But Monsieur," he said, "if Jean Valjean lived in fear of you finding him for so long, why did he let you go free?"

Javert just shook his head. "I haven't the faintest clue. I saw his actions at the barricade, how he volunteered for the cause, his means to save the man his daughter loved. His adopted daughter, as you know." He straightened his posture, surveying the empty room. Very few other customers had come and gone in their time there. "It's strange. I remember your friends, seeing them joking with each other, even hours before their deaths."

Grantaire stared down, nodding slightly. "Do you think their bodies are still there, at the Corinthe?" he wondered. "Not that I want to see them. I just wish I could go pay my respects."

With that, Javert rose intently. "Then let's go now."

***

The sky was too bright as they reached the wine shop. Much to Grantaire's relief, no bodies remained, and what blood once stained the cobblestone streets had sinced been scrubbed away. Still, a makeshift memorial shrine had been erected on the ground next to the wall facing the Corinthe. Several candles burned by a list of names; flowers had been laid beneath it. Grantaire knelt down to lay some, too, one rose for each of the fallen: Joly, Bossuet, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Gavroche, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Marius.

"Jehan isn't listed here," he told Javert. "My friend, Jean Prouvaire?"

"Perhaps they didn't recover his body," remarked the inspector. "During the fighting, the National Guard took him hostage. Enjolras and Combeferre planned to exchange me for him, but they shot him before they had the chance."

Grantaire stayed there, kneeling on the pavement. He covered his face in his hands. Behind him, citizens of Paris passed by on their daily routines, as though it were just another unremarkable sight. Javert stood there behind him, saying nothing, his hat removed.

Grantaire was wiping away a tear just as a young woman knelt down next to him.

"Is this them?" she asked gently. "The students who fell at the barricade?"

Grantaire nodded as they both stood up. "Did you know them?"

"Some, yes." She was rather short, dressed finely with a black shawl.

"What is your name?"

"Musichetta."

The name was familiar. Grantaire raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You're Joly's mistress."

"Yes." She looked to the shrine longingly. "Was he a friend of yours?"

"Joly! He was my good friend. He and Bossuet, you never saw them apart. Just a few days ago, I was having breakfast with them." He shared a sad smile with the woman. "My name's Grantaire, by the way."

"Laigle said something about a Grantaire." She paused, pensive. "But you can't be him; he said Grantaire was an annoying drunk."

Grantaire's face fell, as though he had just received a slap to it. "I am he," he responded flatly.

"Oh!" She quickly brought a hand to her mouth. "Pardon, Monsieur. I'm sure he had many other things to say about you. Better things, I mean."

"I would hope so," Grantaire said in a quieter, dejected tone. He scratched the side of his chin.

Musichetta's eyes grew wide. "Monsieur, that is an interesting mark on your hand."

"Ah!" he quickly covered it with his right. "It's quite old. I really should wear gloves, not to frighten you, Mademoiselle."

"Not at all," she assured him, pausing before asking with interest, "Where did you get it?"

Before he could answer, Javert tapped him on the shoulder. "We should leave," he said under his breath, using his gaze to gesture towards some uniformed officers who were entering the square.

"Any information on the whereabouts of this man will be greatly rewarded!"

One of them held up a poster, the illustration of a young man much to Enjolras' likeness. He stopped upon seeing them crowding the memorial. "You there!"

Grantaire felt the blood drain from his face as the officer approached them, holding out the poster. He could read the words clearly, now: "Wanted for inciting a rebellion, murder."

"What business do you have here?" said the officer. "Did you know this man?"

Grantaire didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Javert stepped forward, placing an iron grip on his shoulder. "This is Grantaire; he was at the Corinthe the time of the barricade. I've been trailing him to learn of his connection to the rebellion."

The other officer paused. "What is your rank, sir?"

"Inspector," he replied, pulling out an engraved card with official insignia.

As the officer took it, Javert explained further. "The morning before the attack, he dined at the wine shop with some friends. He passed out drunk, staying there for duration of the fight. I should know, as I was sent as a spy to infiltrate the barricades at the time. Having followed him these past few days, I've reached the conclusion that he has no connection to the revolution at all, merely an unfortunate choice in friends."

Grantaire looked between them anxiously.

"Very well, sir," said the officer, handing Javert back his card. "Good work. I'll trust you to carry about your business."

***

"And then he just left," said Grantaire, as he explained the events to Enjolras later that evening. "Can you believe that?"

"Of course deception comes easily to him," Enjolras muttered, tearing a piece off some bread Grantaire had brought from the market.

"And we also ran into Joly's mistress," Grantaire continued. He frowned. "I think also Bossuet's."

Enjolras said nothing, just continued to eat. As far as Grantaire had seen, he hadn't left that bed since the first night. When he finished eating, he just sat there, a vacant stare in his eyes.

"It really is something, I think," Grantaire mused, leaning his elbow on the desk. "He pursued Jean Valjean for all those years. But he did have the chance to arrest him, even after Valjean let him live. Javert brought him to his house, and then just left."

He stood up and gathered a blanket to spread on the floor. As he was about to lie down, he heard a voice.

"Do you have to sleep on the floor again? There's room enough in your bed for two."

Grantaire sat up. The thought crossed his mind, what Javert said earlier about men who seek the company of other men. "I don't think that's a good idea, Apollo."

"Please."

Grantaire looked up to him, alarmed at the distress in his voice. The other man stared back at him, and he could see tears in his eyes. He was a mess, still wearing the same shirt from before the barricade, the blood stains well dry by now. Grantaire had absolutely no idea what to do with him.

"Apollo..."

Grantaire climbed onto the bed. He placed a hand on the man's arm, and when Enjolras did not protest, he pulled him into a full embrace. He felt the man weep harder, and at some point, he found those arms were clinging onto him.

Grantaire blew out the last candle, and they remained attached to each other in the dark, and throughout the night.


	3. Chapter 3

When Grantaire awoke, he was alone. For a moment he panicked, wondering if he had done something to make Enjolras leave. But then, he saw that his bed was floating through an empty space. He made a motion to get out of bed, but stopped to rub his eyes.

"How are we faring today, my dear R?"

Grantaire didn't even look up as the Outsider appeared beside him. "What do you want this time?" he said flatly.

"Why, nothing," the being stated coolly. "I was thinking we would go see an exhibition."

"An exhibition?" said Grantaire, and the Outsider stood up as he did, eagerly wrapping a hand around Grantaire's elbow.

"Let's go see, shall we?"

In an instant, they were transported to the Parisian Salon. Grantaire looked down to see the fine suit he was wearing. "What have you done?"

"You should be dressed for the occasion." The Outsider tugged at his arm, pulling him towards one of the walls, which were lined top to bottom with paintings. "Why don't we see what these modern day da Vincis and Michelangelos have come up with," he purred.

Grantaire followed along, curious to see the works. He stopped a few feet in front of them, his face a thick scowl.

"Oh, do you recognise them?" the Outsider pondered.

"These are mine."

"But of course!" The Outsider swept past him, leaning to examine a portrait up close. "They have your name on them."

He was referring to the large red letter R stamped on each of the paintings--R meaning they had been refused by the jury, declared unworthy of exhibition.

Grantaire frowned, stepping close to one, a still life of some grapes and wine. "I didn't think this one was that bad?"

The Outsider paced past him leisurely. "Oh, R, your still life paintings have a ways to go if they're going to compete with the grande genre, history."

"Hey!" Grantaire turned to him quickly, pointing at one portrait, its sketch lines still visible. "I haven't even finished this one yet!"

"And you didn't have to. I already knew it would be rejected."

"So...what?" said Grantaire, folding his arms as he was quite finished. "You brought me here to make fun of my work?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to make _fun_ of you," the Outsider said, his voice smooth like velvet. "I think your work deserves a chance. And not just you, but all the artists whose work was too, ahem, _genius_ to be shown. That one over there, for instance."

He gestured to the next wall over, where hung a decently sized genre painting. The scene was somewhere in nature, and three figures sat conversing in the center. They were wearing modern clothes, with absolutely no reference to classical antiquity. The brush strokes were visible, and the perspective was strangely flattened. Most striking was the nude figure of a woman, staring out at him, looking as though she didn't belong in the scene at all.

"What is this, even? Wallpaper in its embryonic state?" Grantaire protested. "Is this your idea of a joke?"

"Oh, this isn't my painting," said the Outsider, finding a statue to lean against casually. "This was done by a talented friend of mine. Or it will be. I'm thinking of taking all the rejected works and showing them in their own exhibition. What do you think?"

Grantaire gave a harsh laugh, folding his arms in a satisfied conjecture. "A Salon des Refusés? Who would go to see that?"

"My dear R," said the Outsider, appearing behind him once more. The god draped an arm around his shoulders. "You know the people, they love an underdog. And they're going to love you."

Grantaire frowned as he stared into the Outsider's playful gaze, a smirk painted across his lips. He turned to look at the painting again, the nude figure staring into him once more. Although the loose brush strokes made it obvious that she was paint on a canvas, she seemed somehow lifelike, as though she could breathe.

Grantaire felt a pair of arms wrap around him, pearl white hands clutching at his shirt.

He tried to brush them off, but they remained firm. "Let go," he said, closing his eyes tiredly, and as they let go, he jerked awake, palms and feet sweating and he sat sprawled across the side of his bed.

Breathing hard, he turned to see Enjolras, who was backed up against the wall, wide eyes staring back at him. Embarrassment, perhaps?

"I'm sorry," he blurt out, quickly realizing who had been holding onto him in the night. "It was just a bad dream, is all."

Enjolras just stared back at him for a minute before rolling over to face the wall.

Grantaire felt his stomach drop. He lay back down on his back, studying the cracks in the ceilling. He still felt the warmth of the body beside him. For awhile, he lay there in silence, apart from the faint whisper of lungs that weren't his own.

After some time, he figured to get up and venture out for something to eat. When he returned, they sat there eating breakfast with awkward silence. Grantaire looked over at the once proud fearless leader now sat hunched on his bed quite humbly.

"I'm sure you could do with a bath and a change of clothes," said Grantaire. "I can't imagine that's comfortable. You can borrow some clothes if you need to, until...I don't know when it will be safe for you to go out in public again--"

"Thank you." He didn't look up as he spoke. "I'll go now."

He stood up as if to make his way to the corridor, but then just stood there listlessly, his eyes drifting closed.

"Enjolras!" Grantaire set down his plate and jumped up to catch the man as he nearly fell forward.

"Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "...stood up too quickly."

"It's alright," said Grantaire, realizing he had an Enjolras in his arms once again. "Do you need help?"

Enjolras hesitated to answer, his eyes still closed. Finally, he nodded.

Grantaire escorted him to the washroom. He drew a bath, and when he returned with a towel and fresh clothes, Enjolras was still sitting in the same position on the floor, hanging onto the tub as though he had meant to get in fully clothed. The scene was oddly comical.

"What are you trying to do?" Grantaire said with a laugh. "I suppose that's one way to get your clothes clean. I'll wash them for you." He frowned. "Although I don't believe some of those stains will come out--"

"Grantaire," said Enjolras, in his unmistakeably grave tone. He stared at an empty space on the floor. "There's something I have to show you."

The painter couldn't keep a straight face. "Sure, Apollo," he joked, but his face fell as he saw the other man remove his shirt.

How, under that loose fitting piece of clothing, how he hadn't noticed that his chest was bandaged?

"Enjolras," he said. "You're hurt."

The man just sat there, breathing deeply. Finally, he said in a low voice, "Something like that. Do you have a knife?"

Grantaire fetched one, and Enjolras rather knowingly ripped a seam up the side, loosening the deteriorating strips of cloth until breasts fell forth.

"Enjolras..."

Grantaire clutched at his own face in horror. Red marks covered the man's torso from where the bindings had dug into him over time. Of all the feelings that rushed into Grantaire's senses, anger was the one that seemed to take hold.

He stood up, feeling fists form in his hands. "Why didn't you tell me?!"

Enjolras calmly stared back at him. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I didn't tell anyone."

"You mean no one knows?!" Grantaire continued. "How long have you kept this from us?"

Enjolras' brow furrowed. "What kind of question is that? How long have you known me?"

This was like a punch in the gut to Grantaire. How many times had he stared at Enjolras and still not known? "Have you been pretending to be someone else all this time? Are you really Enjolras?"

"That's ridiculous," said Enjolras, rising to his feet with his arms folded. "Regardless of where I came from, I'm still the same person you know to be Enjolras."

"Where you came from?" Grantaire questioned incredulously. "And where is that, exactly? Before you decided to put on men's clothes?"  
  
"Look," said Enjolras, "I don't have any more an explanation than you do, but I just shared something that I definitely did not have to share with you. You don't have to like it. Now, why don't you leave me alone so I can take the bath I haven't had in days."

Grantaire bit his lip, deciding not to argue. "Fine. Enjoy your bath."

And with that, he left the room, punctuated by the door shutting behind him.

***

An afternoon rain drizzled outside as Grantaire sat at his desk, waiting for Enjolras to return. Eyes buried in his hand, he slumped over his desk, the surface cleared off to accommodate a second cup of tea and chair.

The sound of the door opening caused him to stand instantly, breathing in deeply as he beheld the sight of Enjolras, who was somehow even more attractive with damp hair, his skin still glistening from the bath. Over a clean white shirt, he wore a borrowed waistcoat--black, in mourning. An attempt at tying a cravat had been made. As soon as the door was closed behind him, he made eye contact but remained at a firm distance.

"I made you some tea," said Grantaire, pointing to the table in a cheap gesture.

Enjolras did not move.

"Okay," said Grantaire with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry for what I said earlier. I shouldn't have gotten angry at you. It's just that I hate to see you hurt yourself like that."

Enjolras lifted an eyebrow, but otherwise remained silent.

"Because you're my friend!" Grantaire added quickly. "A-and I thought about what you said, about how you didn't have to tell me. And you're right." He swallowed uncomfortably. "Of course you never told me before. You couldn't tell anyone. I can't imagine what it was like for you, having to keep such a secret." His lip quivered as he spoke. "I'm not angry at you, I swear. I'm just...upset."

Enjolras stared at a point on the floor for what seemed like an eternity. "Okay," he concluded.

Grantaire watched as he sat down at the table and took up his designated cup of tea. He rushed to sit down adjacent to him, feeling relieved.

Enjolras grimaced, one hand fidgeting a grip on the arm of the chair. "Maybe you should be angry at me. I'm responsible for the deaths of all your friends. Our friends."

"What?" said Grantaire in surprise. His tone was gentle and sympathetic. "What are you talking about? How can you say that?"

"I made an error in judgement, and I convinced them all to join my cause. I'm the one who led them to their deaths."

"Don't say that!" Grantaire cried, causing Enjolras to startle slightly. "Sorry--I mean, please, don't say things like that." Enjolras still seemed doubtful, so he searched for something else to add. "What about me? You didn't let me die. As soon as the barricade was built, you told me to leave."

"And you didn't," said Enjolras pointedly.

"Because I didn't want to!" He pursed his lips. "Maybe you can blame yourself, but it upsets me to hear you say that."

To his surprise, Enjolras looked humbled, staring into his teacup. "Very well."

"Good. And please tell me you're not...binding yourself again?" Grantaire pleaded gently.

"No," said Enjolras, much to his relief. "I think I'll take a break from that for awhile, seeing as I can't go outside. I can't go back to my old lodgings; my neighbors are probably watching for me."

"Would you return to your parents, in the south?"

Enjolras gave a rather dead expression. "I haven't heard a worse idea." He sighed. "Grantaire, I know I've probably overstayed my welcome at this point."

"No! No," Grantaire reassured him, leaning in like a moth to a flame. "I told you, you can stay as long as you like--as long as you need to, I mean." Grantaire took a sip of tea and swallowed with a frown. "I understand if...you must be tired of me."

Enjolras set down his cup. "I'm not," he said softly.

Grantaire wasn't sure what he meant by that. After a long pause, he decided to change the subject. "You're quite tall for a woman."

"Please don't," Enjolras said firmly. "It never made sense to call me a woman, and it still doesn't."

Grantaire tilted his head down slightly. "Of course. I'm sorry."

Enjolras gave a nod. He sat back in his chair, breathing a humourless laugh. "Tall. And opinionated. My parents had one hell of a time trying to find me a suitor."

Grantaire's posture raised at that, trying to conjure the strange image in his mind. He burst into laughter. "Is that so?"

He could detect the smallest hint of a smile as Enjolras sipped his tea.

Something sounded from the door, and Grantaire's head swiveled to see a letter had been passed underneath it. "That's strange."

He stood up to examine it and found outside was completely blank, although sealed with an unrecognisable wax stamp.

Opening the door, he looked down the corridor, but whoever it was had left.

"They've gone," he said, turning back to Enjolras.

"Odd," said the other man, glancing up with interest. "What does it say?"

Grantaire sat back down and peeled open the seal. Skimming its contents, he raised his eyebrows. "It's Musichetta! 'Meet me today in the Louvre in front of _Le Concert champetre_ at 5:30pm.' But they start closing the rooms around that time."

Enjolras leaned back in his chair, teacup in hand. "Do you even know where to find that...is that a painting?"

"I think so," said Grantaire. He frowned. "I'm not sure."

"You'd better go, then," said Enjolras, nodding towards him.

Grantaire nodded, and stood up. A look of worry crossed his face and he returned his gaze to Enjolras. "Are you alright? Will you be alright here?"

"Yes," said Enjolras without hesitation.

"Are you sure?" He glanced around the room. Wiping some dust off a stack of books in the corner, he said, "I have a small collection of books, so help yourself," he said, wiping some dust from a stack in the corner of the room. "It's pitiful, I know, but I can bring something from the library later."

"Thank you," said Enjolras. "I'll be fine."

He sat there quietly as Grantaire fumbled around the room, gathering himself to leave, trying to find his nicer coat, gloves to cover the mark on his hand. Once he was finally ready, he looked to Enjolras, and outstretched one arm. A handshake? No, that felt too formal; they were friends, were they not? He placed a firm hand on Enjolras' shoulder and gave a nod, which Enjolras returned in a respectful manner.

"Farewell," said Grantaire, and Enjolras gave a simple wave as he left.

When Grantaire was gone, Enjolras turned his head out the window and sighed quietly. The rain was still going, and from the angle he was sitting, he could hardly see out onto the street. He stood up, abandoning his half finished cup of tea to undress down to just a loose shirt and drawers, and crawled back into bed.

***

It was raining harder as Javert made his way down the Rue de la Chanvrevie, returning to the Corinthe once more. He stopped briefly in front of the memorial shrine, its candles extinguished by the rain, and hastily entered the wine shop.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," said the serving woman as he entered.

Javert didn't answer at first, a strange chill passing through him as he recognized the place where he once was taken captive. He blinked to see the tired young woman in front of him, waiting for him to respond so she could go back to serving her other customers.

"Bonjour," he answered politely. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle, but did you know the students, the ones who died here?"

Her expression was quite flat. "Is it me you're asking, Monsieur?"

"Yes," he said.

"I knew them," she said, pursing her lips. "Now please sit down, Monsieur, and I'll return to your table in a minute."

She was about to turn away, but Javert gave a pleading, "Pardon," and she paused to give him her attention once more. "I just want to know about some of them whose names are missing from the list there."

She pursed her lips. "Why? Are you with the police, looking for them?"

Javert was silent for a moment, contemplating what to say. Surely she knew them well if they were long patrons here, and she wouldn't so easily give up the truth about them. "No. I just want to know what happened to them."

The woman folded the tray she was carrying under her arm, and moved in slightly, lowering her voice. "To tell you the truth, their passing is unfortunate as any, but I can't say I'll miss any of them. They were quite unruly, never paid their tabs. One of them in particular was quite the drunken orator; if he so much as steps foot in here again, I'll cut his tongue out."

_Really_, thought Javert. _I'll be sure to let him know_.

"As for the other two that survived, one of them I didn't know very well at all. He never came here until the barricade was built. And the other I hear was taken to prison."

Javert lifted an eyebrow. "You say that Enjolras was taken to prison?"

"No," said the woman. "No one knows what happened to Enjolras. The other student named Jean Prouvaire was taken prisoner during the fighting."

"Prouvaire? I thought the National Guard executed him on sight," said Javert, then, quickly added, "Or so I've heard."

"I heard he was taken to the Conciergerie," continued the woman. "Who knows how long they'll keep him there. Probably just end up executing him like everyone else."

Javert stood there, his mouth hung open slightly. Finally, he nodded. "I understand. Thank you for the information." He reached into his pocket and fished out a handful of sous to give to her.

Her expression became substantially lighter upon seeing the sum. "Thank you, Monsieur!"

He nodded goodbye and made his exit, back out to the pouring rain.

***

Grantaire reached the museum with some time to spare, although he would need it to find one small painting in the massive collection.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," he asked the docent, hoping he was remembering his studies correctly, "Where could I find paintings from the Italian Renaissance?"

"To the south, in the Denon wing, first floor."

"Thank you."

Grantaire hurried through the spacious halls, passing artifacts from many places and times past, many of them seized during Napoleon's conquests. Reaching a series of Etruscan bronzework, he ascended to the first floor to the collection of Italian paintings. He sighed, gazing down the long hallway, a seemingly endless display of artworks.

"Are you lost, Monsieur Grantaire?"

He nearly jumped at the voice, and turned to see Musichetta standing behind him.

"I might be, if we're being honest," he said with an apologetic smile.

Musichetta just laughed. "I realised I neglected to give you directions in my letter. You must know something about art, Monsieur, because we're close."

"That I do. Do you still want to see it, the painting?" Grantaire asked. "If you know where to find it, that is."

"I know where to find it," she said, her smile as keen as a fortune teller's. She took his arm. "Would you escort me there? It's down this way."

"Lead the way."

They promenaded through the halls, passing the progressively fading works as they neared the 16th century. The crowd was thinning, and by the time they reached the work, they were the only ones left in the room. Grantaire studied the modestly sized painting, a pastoral scene of of two men, dressed in Renaissance garb, framed by a couple female figures, representing their inspiration. He frowned, squinting into the background of the picture. "I don't remember her," he told Musichetta, gesturing to another woman, depicted seated in the distance.

Musichetta smiled fondly at the figure. "That is a friend of mine."

"A friend...?"

"Excuse me, Monsieur et Mademoiselle," said a voice, and the pair of them turned their heads to see a docent approach. "The museum will be closed in a few minutes. I would ask you to leave as you are ready."

"Thank you, Monsieur," said Musichetta politely. "It's my fault, this gentleman has been so kind as to take me on a trip to the museum, and it was only until the last minute that I remembered how I wanted to see a work of Georgione, and we have just arrived here in haste. Would you spare us a few minutes to enjoy it?"

The docent shifted his gaze to Grantaire, who nodded to corroborate the story. "It's true, Monsieur."

"Very well," the man replied, "I'll return after checking some of the other rooms, but then you must leave."

Musichetta watched him as he left, and as soon as he was out of sight, her expression turned to one of urgency. She let go of Grantaire's arm. "Follow me; we must hurry before he comes back."

She led him to an alcove hidden discretely in a corner, one that he would have otherwise passed by without notice. Kneeling down, she ran her hands along the intricate molding lining the bottom of the wall. A false panel slid open, and she ushered him into a secret room.

It looked ancient, stone walls and bare wooden floors that must have remained from the museum's time as a medieval fortress. A few beds lay along one side, along with some other furniture, even a pantry. The room was already lit by several candles, which burned at a strange hue.

"Forgive me, we'll have to wait here until the guards are gone," said Musichetta, taking a seat in a chair by a candlelit table.

"What is this place?" asked Grantaire, looking around. One of the beds looked worn. "Do you live here?"

"No," said Musichetta. "This is just a safe house for the Muses. As you probably know, the streets of Paris are often unsafe for a young woman, especially at night. I stayed here during the barricades, for instance."

Grantaire nodded with a frown, still unsure what to make of it. He sat down adjacent to her.

"You had many friends who fought during the uprising?" she asked, adjusting her shawl around her shoulders.

"Yes," he answered, his brow furrowing. "I was there, actually. I slept through much of the fighting."

"You were asleep?" asked Musichetta with an amused expression. "You must be a much more sound sleeper than I am."

"Yes, well, I had had quite a lot to drink that morning," he said, looking away as he scratched the back of his neck. "It was with your friends Joly and Bossuet--Laigle, as you know him; we drank together."

Musichetta blinked. "Yes, you mentioned you were good friends. It must have pained you to hear of their passing."

Grantaire nodded. "And you were good friends, as well? It was but a few months ago that Joly has spoken of you."

"Forgive me, I didn't know them rather well," she explained. "Only the few times that we have met."

"Ah," said Grantaire. He could have sworn he heard women's voices outside. "What did you say earlier, about muses?"

"That must be them," she said, rising from her chair with a renewed expression. "Follow me, Monsieur."

She opened the wall panel onto the main room, where candelabras illuminated the darkness of the night with an supernatural glow. Grantaire was surprised to see a number of young grisettes, milling about the gallery. A few he vaguely recognised to be models for the academy (although now clothed). He had seen women of their class on the streets of Paris, heading to their work in the garment industry; instead these women seemed to take on a new energy as they chatted and laughed animately with each other, unburdened by the outside world.

"Where have they come from?" Grantaire wondered aloud, and just as he asked the question, the answer appeared before his very eyes as another woman stepped out from a scene in a painting, materializing from brushstrokes to flesh as her feet touched the floor.

"Eponine, you're late!" said Musichetta playfully as the young woman approached her friends, rather hastily and distracted in her steps. "Are you alright?" Musichetta asked her. "Oh! Did you go to see her again?"

Eponine twirled a long strand of dark hair her fingertips, her mouth curled into a smile. "Perhaps."

"What's going on?" asked Grantaire, approaching the circle. Some of the women looked at him, whispering to each other.

"This is my guest, Grantaire," Musichetta introduced him. She gestured to Eponine. "And this is Eponine, who is deeply in love."

Eponine rolled her eyes, unable to hide a smile. "I wouldn't say _deeply_. Perhaps only a little bit."

"Oh," said Grantaire, raising an eyebrow with interest. "Who is he, then? The guy?"

The remark was met with an abrupt laughter from the women around him.

"Oh, Grantaire," said Musichetta with an easy smile. "You'll find things work differently among the Muses."

"How so?" he asked, still confused. Before he could answer, one of the Muses walked up to him and slapped him hard across the face. "Ow!" he said, staggering to his feet. It happened so fast, had she hit him so hard?

"I had been saving that for when I saw you next," said the woman, curls of red hair hanging past her shoulders as she looked down at him. Grantaire's eyes widened as he recognised her.

"Floreal, do you know him?" asked one of the Muses, a close friend taking her by the arm.

"This charlatan. He's a student at the Academy; several months ago, I posed for a painting of his, and he never gave me the payment he promised. On top of that, I had to endure his cruel remarks the entire time!"

Grantaire sheepishly shrank into the shoulders of his coat as the women spoke out in displeasure. He did remember the painting; he had been deeply hungover after one time that Enjolras had called him a drunk, so he had proceeded to prove him wrong by drinking, a solid plan. The work was rejected, of course.

"I'm sorry," he said weakly. He reached into his pockets. "I can pay you now! This is all I have on me, the rest...I'll return to you."

She gave a harsh laugh, folding her arms. "What makes you think I want to see you again? And I don't need your money anymore; I suspect you've heard I have a rather wealthy sponsor, now."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I was in a bad place...I shouldn't have taken it out on you..."

Eponine frowned, her hands on her hips. "Monsieur, are you _crying_?"

Before he could answer, or ask to borrow a handkerchief for that matter, all of them silenced, their heads turning at once to a painting in the center of the room, one of Raphael's Madonnas. The woman stepped forward, her clothes transforming to that of her peers, an underadorned gown in muted colors. She aged to around fifty years, similar to Javert's age. By the way she held her head, she looked regal.

"Madame Grey!" said Floreal, approaching her warmly, a great contrast to her attitude towards Grantaire. "How are you this evening?"

"Quite well, thank you, Floreal," the woman said pleasantly as she approached the group. Her kind blue eyes turned harsh at the sight of Grantaire. "Who is this?"

"He is my guest, Madame," Musichetta explained.

The lady did not seem impressed. "I believe you're aware of our tenets, Musichetta, that bringing men here is strictly prohibited."

"But look!" Without warning, she took Grantaire's hand and held it up. She pulled at the fingertips of his glove, removing it to reveal the mark on his hand, some of the women gasping at the sight. "It matches yours, Madame!"

The muses stood aside as Madame Grey approached him carefully, taking the hand in her own, studying the mark. Grantaire caught glimpses of the same symbol on the back of her left hand.

"Where did you get this?" she asked.

"T-the Outsider," he stammered. Grantaire cleared his throat to continue speaking. "He comes to me in my dreams sometimes."

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Grantaire."

"Hmm," she breathed, her face bare of recognition. She lifted her chin to address the Muses. "Leave us, it seems Monsieur Grantaire and I have a few things to discuss."

***

"I remember the first time I saw him, the black eyed prince," the woman told him as they walked along the gallery after the other women had left to another part of the museum. "I was only ten years old at the time of the revolution. My parents were taken from me. I was left there, alone in a tower, with nothing but two books to read."

Grantaire frowned, imagining the situation.

"No one would tell me news of my family. My brother was taken from me, some nights I could hear as they beat him. I was frightened and alone. Monsieur?"

She paused as he had become distracted. Grantaire had been thinking of Enjolras back in his room, wondering if he was okay. "What?" he said with a start. "Pardon, Madame. Please continue your story."

"Yes." The old woman straightened her neck, clearing her throat. "It was then that he visited me, the Outsider. He taught me how to talk to the paintings. In time, I learned to travel through them. I narrowly escaped the Reign of Terror."

"Your parents were wealthy, then?" Grantaire wondered.

Her face hardened. "Very. They had the wealth of a nation."

Grantaire's face contorted, trying to decipher the meaning of the phrase, until it dawned on him, the identity of the woman before him. "You're Marie-Therese, the daughter of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette!"

"Indeed," she stated, continuing to pace along the gallery wall. "I am Madame Royale, although I find Madame Grey suits me these days."

"I see," said Grantaire. "I wondered why you're dressed more like a grisette than royalty."

"The Muses mean a great deal to me," said the lady. "Perhaps you know I have no children of my own. I take care of them, in a way. I prefer to appear as a friend to them, rather than intimidate with fineries. My mother taught me to empathise with those of lower social rank."

"Really?" Grantaire said flatly. "Marie Antoinette taught you that?"

"Yes." Her expression was serious and fierce. "My mother was much more than the frivolous caricature that the media made her out to be."

Grantaire was silent at that. After some time, he spoke again. "Madame, may I ask you a question?"

"You may ask," she said. "I cannot promise an answer."

"How are you in Paris? I thought that Louis-Phillippe had you exiled to England."

"I am in exile." She stopped, and Grantaire watched as her as her lips formed a humourless smile. "I will return to my residence in Edinburgh when I am done here. Like I said, I can talk to the paintings. Move through them."

Grantaire nodded slowly in understanding.

"Now, if I may ask you a question, Monsieur Grantaire," she continued. "What plans do you have for that mark on your hand?"

He paused, clutching it self-consciously. "Has the Outsider ever asked you for a favor? In exchange for his mark, I mean."

"No," she replied. "I've known him many years. He chooses to observe, rather than intervene."

Grantaire frowned, glancing away. "He asked me to kill Louis-Phillippe."

Madame Grey's face was unreadable as she stared back at him. "For what purpose? Would you install my family back on the throne?"

"For a second republic," he said. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze, suddenly realising just how bad an idea it was to disagree with her.

"I won't disagree with the Outsider, if he wills it," she concluded, much to Grantaire's relief. "Although I would hope we could keep each other's confidence, you and I. My breaking exile and your assassination plot."

Grantaire winced, watching as she held out her hand. He shook it, nodding quickly. "Yes, of course. Thank you, Madame."

***

The room was dark, as Enjolras lie in bed, a prisoner of his own thoughts. Long shadows danced on the wall, cast by a single candle still burning on the desk. He closed his eyes in distress upon hearing a knock on the door.

"Grantaire?"

It was Javert's voice.

"Are you there? I have important news."

Enjolras rolled over to face the wall, tugging at the blanket that covered him. He endured a few more knocks at the expense of Javert, until they stopped as a second set of footsteps was heard in the corridor. He heard a second voice, muffled by the wall, and recognised it to be Grantaire's.

Enjolras opened his eyes.

The door opened slightly, and he heard the other man's voice more clearly. "Wait just a minute, Monsieur."

Enjolras sat up slowly, his tired eyes squinting in the light as Grantaire closed the door behind him.

"Good evening," said Grantaire, approaching his bedside. "Have you been well?"

Enjolras stared back at him in a vague annoyance. "I'm fine."

That answer did not set Grantaire at ease. "Well," he continued, "Javert is here; he says he has news of our friend Jehan."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that."

"No, really," Grantaire said, his eyes pleading. "It sounds important."

Wiping his face with one hand, Enjolras sighed. Finally, he nodded.

Grantaire helped him to become presentable, retrieving his trousers and waistcoat. Enjolras looped a cravat around his neck, and held onto the ends rather perplexedly. "I never quite figured out how these things worked."

"Leave it," said Grantaire. "It suits you this way, I think."

Enjolras considered the comment, and then just shook his head slightly. "Whatever."

He sat down in the chair by the desk. "How do I look?"

Standing a distance away, Grantaire studied him, editing the words "stunning" and "handsome" from his response. "Decent. The waistcoat hides your curves a great deal."

Enjolras gave a tired nod, and Grantaire answered the door to let Javert enter.

"Good evening once again, and to you, as well, Enjolras," said Javert, sweeping into the room. "I've just been to the Place du Chatalet on an investigation into the whereabouts of your friend, Jean Prouvaire."

"Alright," said Grantaire, folding his arms as he leaned against the door. "What is it, then?"

Javert cleared his throat to make the announcement. "He is being held in the Conciergerie, and, unless we intervene, he is to be executed tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made it trans. Oopsie!
> 
> This update took awhile because I decided everything has to be historically accurate *closes 20 tabs on the french revolution* but I hope you enjoyed it! Also, one part of this chapter was definitely not inspired by Pose on Netflix...
> 
> Here are the paintings listed in order:
> 
> Manet's [Luncheon on the Grass (Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_D%C3%A9jeuner_sur_l%27herbe#/media/File:Edouard_Manet_-_Luncheon_on_the_Grass_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg), shown in the Salon des Refuses which did happen in 1863
> 
> [Pastoral Concert (Le Concert champetre)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pastoral_Concert#/media/File:Le_Concert_champ%C3%AAtre,_by_Titian,_from_C2RMF_retouchedFXD.jpg) c. 1509 by Titian or Georgione
> 
> [La belle jardiniere](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_belle_jardini%C3%A8re#/media/File:La-belle-jardiniere.jpg) by Raphael, 1507
> 
> For imagery's sake, also:  
[Interior: Woman at the Window](https://www.wikiart.org/en/gustave-caillebotte/interior-woman-at-the-window-1880), Gustave Caillebotte, 1880
> 
> (On another note, guys please bind safely. Get a binder that fits and wear it no more than 6-8 hours at a time.)

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the Dishonored/Les Mis crossover you didn't know you needed! Is it a coincidence that everyone's favorite movie adaptation and Dishonored both came out in 2012? Maybe it's been seven years but I am still hyped for both of them, and seeing as they both contain some of my favorite ships, I just had to put something together. I hope to update "soon" and "regularly" but, y'know, life and stuff. Thanks for reading so far, and see you next time!
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr (ghost-of-tchaikovsky) if you want to stop by.


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